Ties That Bind
by Ice Queen1
Summary: When HG goes missing, Jane (against her better judgement) turns to the one person who knows him better than anyone to help find him. Because before he was a serial killer, John Stevenson was HG Wells's closest friend. And someone hasn't forgotten that.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I am supposed to be doing something else. Like work on my other stories. Actually do my homework before the night it's due. But HA! I might as well suggest I solve cold fusion, or world peace while I'm at it. I started watching this and I was instantly hooked, and I must say - I have never been the adorkable type fan, but OMFG, WELLS. WHO IS THE OFFSPRING OF A CINNAMON ROLL AND A CREAM PUFF AND TOO PRECIOUS FOR THIS WORLD. So naturally, I must cause him pain. Because we only hurt the ones we love (in fanfic, anyway. PSA - don't do that in real life. Real life makes you a dick). Anyway. Enough delays. Onward!

* * *

Jane stared at the door in front of her.

It was a simple metal door, partially fashionable and in keeping with the modern industrial look of the apartment high rise, the number 930 clearly emblazoned across it. There was a peephole directly underneath, and no welcome mat to speak of. It was identical to the other three doors on the penthouse floor, save for the numbers.

She'd been standing in front of it for almost ten minutes, studying every fine detail with her hand raised to knock but unable to move. Her heart thudded in her chest, not so secretly terrified of what she knew was on the other side of the door.

It'd taken her a while to find it, but she did. She hadn't even told Vanessa she knew. She didn't want her to send Doug or anyone else from her security team with her.

As dangerous as it was to come alone, she knew it was impossible any other way. He would never hear her out, and she would be lucky to walk away with anything less than a door being slammed in her face.

She pulled in a shaky breath, willing her trembling hand to move, to knock, to at least _try_ this absolutely insane idea. She reminded herself that this wasn't her choice – it was a lack of options. She tried to convince herself, if it was the other way around, someone else would do everything possible for her.

Even the unthinkable.

"You can do this, Jane," she muttered to herself, psyching herself up to make a move. "You are not mediocre. You are… _absolutely insane with no sense of self preservation and when you get killed your father will never let you live it down_."

And before she could change her mind, she rapidly knocked on the door. She held her breath, half turning and completely prepared to run if someone else opened the door.

She heard nothing. No footsteps approaching the door, no turn of the knob, no nothing.

She bit her lip, wringing her hands nervously as she chewed her bottom lip. Maybe he wasn't home. Worse, maybe he _was_ home, and he hadn't heard her knocking over…whatever _else_ he could be doing. Things she didn't want to contemplate.

Or maybe he had headphones on and couldn't hear her? Or was…vacuuming?

Jane vowed to stab her brain with a Q-Tip when she got home for its stupidity and lack of help.

She raised her hand to knock again when the door opened, and she jumped back in surprise, half turning to run away as if this was the most dangerous game of Ding Dong Ditch one could play, but she froze, staring at the man before her.

It helped that he looked just as surprised to see her as she did him, but he recovered much quicker.

"Jane Walker," John Stevenson said, lips curling up in a smirk. "Fancy seeing you here."

Jane's heart felt like it was going to explode. He'd tried to kill her. He held her hostage. Threatened another woman in front of her, stabbed HG, tried to steal the time machine and _oh God what was she thinking_.

"What are you doing here?" John demanded, though he actually looked moderately impressed. "I would think if you could find me so easily, Wells would've sent his mercenaries after me to drag me back to the 1890's."

Dark eyes ran calculatingly up and down and Jane repressed the urge to shiver. She opened her mouth to speak, trying to remember the words she'd come up with on her journey over. She'd repeated it a thousand times, practicing every line until she was sure she'd come up with the perfect message.

But now that she stood in front of the monster, the Ripper himself, words failed her.

John's sly grin faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. He stuck his head out into the hallway, glancing up and down the empty space before stepping back, his frown deepening. "You're alone."

Her mouth opened to speak, but immediately closed it again, looking down at her feet and shifting nervously from foot to foot, biting her lip as she tried to make her brain connect with her mouth without completely freaking out like she so desperately wanted to.

"Wells is many things, but he's a far cry from stupid. Naïve, to be sure, but not an idiot. He would never allow you to come here, alone, if he knew what you were doing. And I doubt very much you would come here without his knowledge. If he knew how to find me, then he would've come himself. Him and that oaf from the park."

The killer's head cocked to one side, and she could see that fierce intelligence at work behind that calculating stare.

"What happened to HG?" he asked, sounding angrier than she expected. But then, without HG, John was trapped here in present day, and as much as he seemed to thrive here, it wasn't somewhere he wanted to stay.

"They took him," she finally blurted out. It seemed so…insignificant for what happened. It didn't cover the hours she'd spent looking for him, running through city cameras with Vanessa's security team trying to find out where he went. The way her stomach twisted in on itself the more hours passed and they found nothing, heard nothing, saw _nothing_.

Half the reason she wanted to come here, to stand face to face with the most famous serial killer in history was to convince herself that it wasn't a dream. To believe that the time machine really worked and HG Wells and Jack the Ripper came forward in history and they were _real_.

"Took him?" John repeated, as if testing the words on his own tongue. Something dark flitted across those intense eyes, something primal and something dangerous and for some reason, Jane found herself absurdly grateful.

Maybe because if John was angry, it meant that he cared. Not the same way she did, but the way a wolf cared when something foreign moved into its territory. She wasn't banking on his humanity to move him into action. She was hoping against hope that his possessiveness and arrogance would.

"Who?" he asked, taking a step forwards, one hand going behind his back where she had little doubt his curved blade rested.

She stepped back, shaking her head. "I don't know. _We_ don't know. But he's _gone_."

John took another step forwards, and Jane couldn't help thinking he looked remarkably like a large cat on the hunt.

And she was painfully aware that meant he was hunting _her_.

"How long?" John pressed, eyes narrowing. "I've been calling about his deadline, but there's no answer. He would _never_ ignore me. Not when he knows what will happen if he does. That's been at least a few days."

"A week," she said. "We've been looking for him, but we can't find a trace of him. I thought…I thought maybe you'd done something, or – or maybe he'd gotten the time machine to work and he'd gotten stranded somewhere before it came back or…I don't _know_." She stood herself up straight, as tall as she could manage and refused to take another step backwards.

She was here for HG, she reminded herself.

"I need your help," she said firmly. "And if you help me find him, I _will_ help you find another time. I'm not going to give you the key, or promise we won't come after you, but I will get you a head start."

She didn't want to give Jack the Ripper _anything_. If he'd been an idiot, that would be a different story. She wouldn't wonder how fast he could acclimate to any time he chose, or the mountain of bodies he could leave behind just to mess with history. But… _but_ he spared Jules. He could've killed Jules, he could've killed _her_ , but he hadn't. And maybe, _maybe_ that spark of whatever tiny piece of humanity he had in him would be enough to agree to help her.

For a moment, John said nothing, remaining silent as he stared at her, studying with an intensity she would've associated with foxes and henhouses before one human to another.

She fought the urge to fidget under the scrutiny.

Finally, John stepped back, straightening up to his full height as he smiled at her. "I feel like we should be standing at a crossroad to make a deal like that, _Jane_."

She was pretty sure she could hear Faust in the background, and yes, she was perfectly aware she was trying to make a deal with the devil.

But somewhere in that monster, behind that mask, was a man that someone like HG thought enough of to call a _friend_ and she hoped to God there was a sliver of reality to that act.

For a moment, she was positive he was going to refuse. That he would decide that if HG wasn't around to chase him, then he was fine staying in this era. Killing people here versus killing them there would make no difference to him.

Instead, he smiled, and stuck out his empty hand.

She stared at it like it was going to bite her. Or, more likely, suddenly be wielding a knife meant for her throat.

"Do they not still shake hands to affirm a partnership?" he prompted, his hand remaining unwaveringly extended out to her.

"No, no, they do. I mean, _we_ do. Just…show me your other hand first," she said firmly, keeping her grip on her bag where her father's gifted gun remained hidden.

John seemed amused by the demand, but she saw the subtle movement of his arm. She was right. He _had_ been holding a knife behind him. It was oddly reassuring, because it at least meant he was predictable.

He held his now empty hand up to show her, still smirking. "Satisfied?"

"Not really," she said honestly, but she took his hand and gave it one quick, firm shake before releasing it.

His hands were like ice.

"So, _Jane_ ," John asked. "When do we start?"

* * *

HG fought to open his eyes, but they felt like they'd been glued shut. Everything seemed disconnected and far away, like he was floating underwater.

He tried to move, to make his hands and arms and fingers work but they remained traitorously unresponsive.

Somewhere nearby, he could hear a rhythmic beeping, which other than being irritating, meant nothing.

There was a bright light above him, so bright he could even see it through his closed lids. It was invasive and all-consuming and despite its intensity, it lacked any warmth.

He tried to work his mouth, his throat clicking as he swallowed without moisture, his own lips chapped and dry as his tongue, but nothing came out. Hardly a breath of air.

"He's starting to wake up. Should we let him?"

HG knew he should worry about that, but his brain couldn't latch onto any one feeling long enough to register and react. He wasn't even sure if he was dreaming the voice in his head.

"No. Not yet."

A warm hand took his freezing one in theirs, and his fingers reflexively curled around it, trying to anchor himself to something real in the abyss he found himself floating in.

"That's cute."

"Oh, shut it."

Something pulled uncomfortably at his neck, pinching slightly as he tried to move his head.

He must've said something, because the hand on his moved, running through his hair as they made shushing noises, trying to be soothing.

But there was nothing soothing about this, and he was becoming more aware by the moment. He didn't know the voices, didn't know who sat beside him, whose hand that was, and it felt _wrong_. He tried to move his head, but the hand wouldn't let him, holding him firmly in place.

The once steady beeping in the background was starting to pick up the pace, echoing his own heartbeat as he tried to shift away.

"He's getting agitated."

"I noticed. Put him back under before he pulls it out."

There was a flush of warmth from the pinched area on his neck, and instead of floating, he felt himself falling.

The last thing he registered was the hand that hadn't moved, remaining passively on his cheek as it stroked away a trail of dampness.

"Go back to sleep."

And the darkness swallowed him whole.

* * *

Author's Note: I know this is a baby fandom - you know, with like all of four episodes aired. But if you read, please leave a review! Drop me a line, let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: The Cocky Undead, I'm going to start watching for you in everything I post now. It's always awesome to see familiar names, because then it means I have shared fandoms with people. Yay! But, to everyone else, HI! (you can't see it, but I'm waving). Anyways, I just want you guys to know that THIS particular story marks a lifetime achievement award for me: it is the FIRST in a category here on fanfic. However, if you would like more, there are some lovely fluff pieces on AO3 I would recommend. Onward!

* * *

"Where did you last see him?" John asked, stepping back into his penthouse, leaving the door open as an obvious invitation to follow.

Jane clutched her bag to the point she was white knuckling it, one hand inside on the pistol there as a form of a security blanket. At least John seemed to prefer knives, which meant that as long as she kept her distance and a fair amount of furniture between then, she should be able to shoot him before he gutted her.

With that comforting thought, she took a deep breath, and stepped into the apartment.

Of all the things she was expecting to find, nothing wasn't one of them. No blood trail, or bodies littering the floor. No obvious blinking neon sign saying that the apartment's current occupant was the most notorious serial killer in history.

And definitely a step up in refinery compared to the last apartment he hijacked. She couldn't help the low whistle of appreciation as she glanced around what was obviously a million-dollar condo. Everything was glistening white and stainless steel, with not a single item out of place and floor to ceiling windows on the far wall that overlooked the city skyline.

"You seem have made yourself at home in the twenty-first century rather quickly," she mused, catching sight of a closed door at the end of the hall.

"It's an era where psychopaths and killers are celebrated," he scoffed, ignoring her pointed stare at the closed back room. He opened the fridge, pulling out a bottled water before turning back to her. "What's not for me to like?"

Jane glanced back at him, giving him a sardonic look before settling on the arm of the sofa, well out of arms reach and with the entirety of the kitchen counter between them. "We don't _celebrate_ them," she corrected. "We mention them in history, and not in a good light."

John laughed outright at that. "Oh sure," he said, twisting off the bottle cap. "Says the country that elected a man who said he could assault women, _and_ shoot someone in Times Square – whatever that is – and no one would stop him." He took a long drink, still smirking as he put it down. "I see why he likes you. You're both idealistic fools."

Jane, not about to rise to the bait, didn't answer, instead raising an eyebrow. "Yesterday at four in the afternoon," she said.

"What about it?"

"You asked when the last time I saw HG was. Yesterday, at four in the afternoon," she repeated.

"Was that as he was going out the door?" John asked.

Jane shook her head. "No. It's the last time he was seen on camera. He was going into Central Park, but there's minimal camera coverage in there. He's seen on one, and after that…" she held hands up, indicating they were empty. "Nothing."

John, to his credit, didn't even bat an eye. "Central Park is rather famous for people disappearing into, isn't it?"

"You know, I'm still trying to get HG to understand Google. How are _you_ picking up on all of this so fast?" Jane asked, voicing something that had been bothering her since the first time he'd called her.

John glanced down at the water bottle on the counter, and something dark flickered across his eyes. When he looked up, however, there was nothing amiss. He was the same John Stevenson as always – cold, calculating, and cruel. "You think I'm not smart enough to figure out technology?" he asked, offering a brittle smile. "I walk around here and I see infants on phones. Everything is designed for morons to be able to use. HG and I have been friends for years. Didn't you wonder what our common ground might be?"

"Obviously not your sparkling personality," Jane muttered.

"We were smarter than everyone else of our time," John said. "Wells used his genius to theorize about his idyllic future, and I used mine in surgery."

"You mean butchery?" Jane said, offering him her own mockingly sweet smile.

Instead of being insulted, John merely chuckled. "You're some sort of historian, right? Can you honestly tell me the difference between them in 1893?"

Ouch. Score one for Jack the Ripper.

"Didn't think so. To the point at hand. You said Central Park was the last place you saw him?" John clarified.

She nodded.

Without saying a word, John suddenly moved from behind the counter, moving purposely towards her and for a moment, Jane panicked – all she could think of was when he'd kidnapped her from her own apartment and she reached for her gun– but he didn't even look at her.

Instead, he continued past her, uncaring or just oblivious to her cardiac arrest inducing panic, and through the closed door at the end of the hallway, shutting it behind him.

She breathed a sigh of relief before he emerged once more, carrying a leather jacket in one hand as opposed to his usual suit, and he closed the door behind him.

"Well, let's go then," he said, heading for the front door.

He must've noticed her staring at the mysterious door, because he rolled his eyes as he heaved a melodramatic sigh. "It's the bedroom. What do you want, a tumble in the sheets before we go and find your missing suitor?"

Jane felt her cheeks flush a violent crimson. "What?" she protested. " _No_. But you can't blame me for wondering how you came by this condo considering how you came by your _last_ place."

"I didn't kill anyone to get it, if that's what you're insinuating," he said. "I've come by a better strategy for obtaining lodgings since then."

Jane put a finger to her lips in mocking contemplation. "Oddly enough, I don't believe you."

"Go take a look then," he said irritably, gesturing towards far door. "Go on, and maybe you can stop hyperventilating every time I stand near you, or this is going to be a long walk."

Maybe it was because he offered it so willingly, or maybe it was because she had to find something to convince herself that she wasn't making the worst mistake in human history, trusting the Ripper to find a man he loosely called 'friend' and _not_ kill her in the process, but she stood, gave him a pointed glare, and backed her way down the hall without ever taking her eyes off him.

John didn't move, but he did look exasperated.

She slowly twisted the knob, pushing her back against the door to push it open, and glanced quickly over her shoulder through the opening.

"Huh," she said, taken aback.

It was perfectly normal. Silk sheets on an unmade bed devoid of bloodshed, and no one tied to the headboard with an electrical cord. Considering the absolute order to the rest of the apartment, the fact that the bed wasn't made was out of place, but she would take it as a win. She poked her head quickly around the door to see into the open concept bathroom, and when she saw nothing suspicious there, she slowly closed the door behind her.

"Satisfied?" John asked irritably. "No corpses – fresh or otherwise."

"Maybe you just got better at hiding them," she snapped.

"Oh for the love of…" he hit his head against the edge of the open door. "Really? Have I ever tried to hide what I do? Historically or otherwise? No. Because _moving_ bodies is how people find _you_. Leave them there for someone else to find, and you have a much higher probability of getting away with it because then they have to prove your presence. If I'd killed anybody for this place, rest assured, they'd still be here."

Jane _did_ find that oddly reassuring. Until she glanced back at the fridge, and her imagination got the better of her.

Apparently, she didn't hide it well, because John made a face. "That's revolting. _No_."

"Some researchers suggest you were at least partially cannibalistic," Jane protested. "Something about a missing liver…I think."

John pulled a lip back in obvious disgust. "They also said I only murdered five whores between August and September of 1888. Now, my patience is growing thin, and we haven't even left the apartment yet. I think we can both agree that one thing the historians didn't get wrong is my temper. So – for the _last time_ – shall we?" He yanked open the door, emphatically gesturing for her to go ahead of him.

She hesitated briefly, before forming a V with her index and middle fingers, pointing from her own eyes to his, before she stepped through the door.

John made a face, mimicking the movement. "What the bloody hell does that even _mean_?"

* * *

"So what exactly is it that you think you're going to find that we couldn't?" Jane asked, keeping her arms folded across her chest as John stood in the middle of the path intersection they'd last seen HG at.

"Apparently something, because you risked your life to come and find me," John said flippantly. With his dark aviator glasses on, she couldn't quite tell what he was looking at.

At least, other than the few times some rather becoming young women would walk by, obviously checking him out and him returning the favor.

"This is exactly the spot that he disappeared from. Well, it's the last time we saw him on camera, anyway," she clarified. "But there wasn't anyone with him, and all he did was turn that corner," she pointed, "and then he just never shows up again on the next camera."

John nodded absently, still looking at the ground. What he thought he could see on tarmac was a mystery, but she didn't ask. "How far is the next camera?"

"On this path?" Jane said. "About a hundred feet. Fifty if he decided to keep going straight. And another hundred back the way we just came."

John nodded thoughtfully, before abruptly striding off in the direction she'd pointed out as the route HG took according to the camera.

"So I have a hundred feet of possible places that HG could've veered off into?" he called over his shoulder.

Jane hurried after him, but remained at least fifteen feet behind him. He hadn't reached for the blade she knew he had since he'd first opened the door, and he'd been nothing but professional since leaving the apartment, but still.

It actually was incredibly unnerving how _little_ he seemed like a serial killer, or even remotely threatening when he wasn't trying. It was like a switch he could throw, and when he wasn't in a blinding rage, he was almost human.

Like how he'd been at Jules's apartment when she was trying to teach him Google, or when he'd offered to clean the cut on her arm – even though he was the one she'd been trying to escape when she'd injured it.

"Yeah, about that. The problem is he doesn't reappear anywhere in the park – or leaving it, and all of the entrances and exits are recorded."

"Uh huh," he said, stopping abruptly in the middle of the path. "Since you're under the impression someone took him, you're going to have to assume this was planned. Did anyone else know about his predilection for wandering to clear his head?"

Jane shook her head. "I didn't even know. I was at work when he left."

John nodded, then stepped off the pavement into one of the many groves of thickly grown underbrush and trees. "He was always wandering off when no one was looking," he said, and Jane could detect a touch of fondness in the memory. "Worse, he never paid attention to _where_ he was wandering. I don't know how many times I had to fish him out of the duck pond at Regents."

"How long have you known HG?" Jane asked, debating whether or not to follow John into the underbrush. Because following known serial killers, even well behaved ones, out of sight of witnesses, was not high on the list of smart things to do.

"I'm thirty, so…fourteen years? Fifteen? Something around there," his disembodied voice answered from the shadows. "Tell me, _Jane_ , can you see me from where you're standing?"

Jane stood on her tippy toes, craning her head to try and peer over the large bushes or around the thick trees. She shook her head. "No."

"Well that answers _that_ ," John muttered, and melted back into view like a living shadow. "I could see you just fine. Actually, I could see you _and_ that man up there," he said, pointing back the way they'd come. The man he indicated was just passing the intersection the cameras had last caught sight of HG. "So, if this was me, this is where I would wait. And I would've had a way to get HG to leave the path and come over without me having to go get him. After that, it wouldn't be too hard to feign an injury for him, and pretend like I was helping him home." He pointed at the cameras. "And I would enlist something that would get him out of sight as fast as possible without seeming out of place."

Jane stared at him, open mouthed.

John shrugged. "What? There's even evidence of someone waiting here for a while. The same set of shoe prints just wandering around in a circle just out of the line of sight. Even a couple of cigarettes, which is really stupid for someone who wants stealth to take their prey by surprise."

"How would they even convince him to leave the trail?" Jane protested, not quite sure why she was arguing with him. After all, she did specifically ask him to help for his insight.

John shrugged, hands in his pocket and lip curling up in disgust. "An injured puppy, or something equally saccharine. You've met the man – do you honestly think it would take anything more than 'could you help me find my glasses' for him to trip over himself to help?"

Jane couldn't help the fond smile. "No, it wouldn't."

John stared at her, the same look of disgust still on his face, until she shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

" _What_?" she asked, irritably.

He shook his head, before heading off back into the trees. "You two deserve one another."

It was meant as an insult, and she knew it, but she couldn't help the small grin.

"Come _on_ , Jane," John called. "You want to find him sooner rather than later, yeah?"

"Where are you even going?" she asked, stepping into the copse of trees after the man.

"You said you checked the cameras, right? Well, they're only on the paths. Ergo, they didn't leave via a path."

She didn't think London south could sound like 'well, _duh_ ', but John managed it. The grove wasn't all that large, maybe only twenty or thirty yards thick, but it didn't open back up to another path. Instead, it opened to a clearing, where John now stood, again looking down.

"Any wheeled vehicles allowed in the park?" John asked. He indicated with a point of his foot to the tire marks in the dirt before they disappeared in the grass.

"The grounds keeping vehicles for the park services," Jane immediately answered. "Which would explain how they would know that HG makes it a habit of walking through the park by himself. Or, at least, how they could be out here for long hours and no one question why the vehicles were here. And the vans are big enough to easily hide someone HG's size."

She pulled out her phone to dial Vanessa, to tell her what they'd found when suddenly John reached out and snatched it away from her.

"Hey!" she protested, trying to grab it back but he held it easily out of her reach. "Give it back!"

"Who are you calling?" John demanded, keeping the phone aloft.

"Vanessa," she explained. "She's the one who's been helping HG fix the time machine to adhere to your stupid deadline. _And_ they're the ones that helped me figure out where he disappeared, so at least we knew where to look."

"And these people, this _Vanessa_ ," he spat the name like it was something rotted. "How are they going to react to you coming to me for help? I didn't offer my insights just to wind up in a cage somewhere while you and your merry band of idiots go and get him killed fumbling around in the dark looking for him."

"You have a better idea for finding out who had one of those trucks?" Jane demanded. "Let's hear it."

John frowned momentarily, and she could see the flicker of doubt run across his face before the confident smirk returned. "Tell me, _Jane_. Do they still have depots around for company transports?"

Now it was Jane's turn to frown, wondering what the hell it was that he was getting at. "You mean like a motor pool?"

John blinked. "Sure. Is that anything like a taxi depot?"

Jane winced. She'd somehow completely blanked on the fact that not even John Stevenson could catch up on the whole of modern terminology and phrasing in less than a month. It was a lot easier to remember with HG, and she often wondered if he was as awkward in his own time as he was in hers.

"Yes, it's like a taxi depot. If you give me my phone back, I could probably tell you where it's located." She held her hand out, palm up as she waited.

John gave her a warning look, cautioning without words what he would do if she decided to contact Vanessa instead, but handed the phone back without further argument.

As she looked for the motor pool for the Central Park services, she glanced up at John, who wasn't paying attention to her. Instead, he was watching the people as they walked by, but not paying any particular amount of interest to any of them.

"So, I get that you're smart, but HG is smart too – and he's obviously more technologically inclined than you are because hey – he built a time machine. But why does he seem to have so much more trouble with the learning curve for things like a phone? Or always seems surprised about how history turned out? I mean, 1890's weren't exactly the Golden Age of Man. Is how it all turned out really so surprising?"

John chuckled, not turning to face her. "HG's problem is that he thinks things ought to work a certain way, and that people think the way that he does, no matter how many times I try to tell him that _no one_ thinks the way he does. So, he expects things to work the way he would've made them work, whereas I figure out how they _actually_ work. I don't stop to wonder about the hows and the whys. In fairness though, as much as he annoys me with his obnoxiously optimistic outlook, it was always my favorite thing about him."

Jane didn't immediately answer. She hadn't really had the chance to ask HG about how he'd come to be friends with John, but she did notice he still called the older man a friend first before catching and correcting himself. He still didn't even reference him as the Ripper, just by his first name.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "Mine too."

John did look back at that, and for the briefest of moments, he genuinely smiled. "For the record, I like you better than his ex-wife."

"Thanks, I think. As long as you don't plan to murder me later to get back at him or whatever evil mastermind plan you have." She glanced down at her phone. "Looks like motor pool is nearby. Let's go."

* * *

Neither one noticed the man on the bench reach for his own phone, never taking his eyes off their retreating backs.

"They're on their way. I hope you know what you're doing," he said.

" _We pay you for your observations, not your insights_. _Keep us updated on their status but remember -_ "

He growled. "Yeah, yeah, don't get caught. He's the bloody fucking Ripper. You think he's going to leave me alive long enough for you to fire me?"

" _Fire you_?" There was a quiet laugh. " _Don't be so unimaginative. Death under the blade of the Ripper would be a blessing compared to what we'd do._ "

He winced, and thought back to the young man they had back at the lab. He had plenty of imagination. That was the problem.

"I'll manage."

There was a click and the line went dead.

He stared at the phone for a moment before shaking his head, slipping it back into his pocket before following after the two.

* * *

Author's Note: As always, read and review! I love hearing from people in a fandom! Especially such a fledgling one!


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